


Three Tongues is Better Than One

by DaringlyDomestic



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Sherlock (TV), Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2016)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Crack, Iain Fucking MacKelpie, Iain and Stephen fight it out, John gets spit-roasted, Kissing, Lots of sexy times, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Oral, Surprise! Stephen likes it rough, THIS WENT TOO FAR, him and two sherlocks!, john negotiates his dream threesome, just kidding its sherlock and stephen strange, or maybe not, sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 11:18:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: John meets up with old friend for coffee and starts fantasizing. Can you say threesome with the Sorcerer Supreme? I can!





	Three Tongues is Better Than One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cracky follow up to the following wonderful works:
> 
> [The Stand-in](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10684725) by [Itsallfine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine) (based on [One Night in Karachi](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7393510) by [unknownsister](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister)) 
> 
> [let's do some living after we die](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10685643) by [kimbiablue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kimbiablue/pseuds/kimbiablue)

John smiles to himself as he turns his key and re-enters 221B. His heart pounds with a combination of nerves and excess caffeine. Maybe coffee hadn’t been the best decision. His toe connects painfully with the edge of the top stair, and John grabs the door to keep himself from literally falling into the flat. Sherlock, deep in concentration on his “ _it’s a casebook, John!”_ furrows his brow as he trims the edges of the article to a precise 1/8” margin and pastes it into the scrapbook. 

“I could hear you thinking all the way out in the hall. The miscalculation with the step could have resulted from a number of things, but if your leg was acting up, you would have been much slower coming up the stairs.”

Sherlock says this all without looking up from his book, but John correctly reads between the lines: _I’m concerned. Tell me what’s going on?_

John leans over to kiss Sherlock’s temple as he passes by to fill the kettle. Sherlock shifts, subconsciously leaning into the scent of home-safe- _john._ A hint of strong espresso wafts off of his soft brown button-up. Sherlock’s eyes shoot open.

“Where were you?" 

Sherlock shoots out of his chair and towers over John, pressing him backward into the counter. His keen eyes taking in every detail. His brain whirring away parsing the vital information from extraneous facts.

“You said you were meeting a friend for drinks.”

He tries to keep the accusation out of his tone, but judging by the storm clouds gathering in John’s eyes, he failed.

“And?”

John pushes back, arching into Sherlock’s space, refusing to be intimidated. A brief moment of vulnerability flashes in Sherlock’s gaze before the stony unreadable void is back.

“You weren’t with Greg.”

This time the accusation is intentional.

“Nope.”

John snaps his “p” the way Sherlock usually does, egging him on. Catching on quickly, Sherlock lowers his head to run his nose along John’s cheek. He inhales deeply, ruffling John’s hair. Most of the tension drains out of John’s shoulders as a shiver runs through him.

“Git.”

The admonishment is without heat. John runs his hand up Sherlock’s back, feeling smooth silk shift against Sherlock’s skin. At the top of his spine, John gently pulls Sherlock’s neck to rest their foreheads together. He looks at Sherlock’s full lips, dry from the concentration-generated repetitive swipes of Sherlock’s tongue all afternoon. The image sends John’s stomach swooping.

“I wasn’t lying, love. I did have drinks with a friend.”

“Lying by omission, then. You knew I would assume you were getting drinks with Greg.”

Sherlock drags his mouth along John’s jawline as he runs his hands over John’s chest.  John decides he is done with the teasing. He grabs Sherlock’s face and pulls him in for a toe-tinglingly deep kiss. The kiss feels like it goes on for minutes. When they finally part, Sherlock is panting hard. A deep scarlet creeps over his chest and his hair is askew. John loves him.

He maneuvers Sherlock back to his chair so that he can straddle his lap and nip at his neck while they talk.

“You remember when Iain came over?”

Sherlock chuckles, a deep rumble John feels through his chest.

“I was more concerned with the aftermath.”

John nips harder, startling a gasp out of the gorgeous man falling apart beneath him.

“Yes, well. Good. Anyway, remember how I told you about the man who looked like you? The American?" 

Sherlock goes nonresponsive beneath him. John pulls back and panics at the carefully blank look on Sherlock’s face.

“No! No, love. Look at me. Please? That’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock breathes and allows some of the uncertainty to bleed into his expression. A good sign that he is listening. John kisses the tip of his nose, making him blink shyly.

“His name is Stephen. He knows that I am blissfully happy and unavailable. He’s in London for…”

John searches for words and comes up blank.

“Honestly, I didn’t really understand a word of it. You probably would though. Something about a sanctum and surgery and sorcery. Who knows? It was just catching up over a coffee. But it did get me thinking.”

John squirms nervously and looks down. An uncalculated decision that puts his attention on Sherlock’s cock straining against the constricting cut of his pristine trousers. John swallows down his desire to focus on the conversation at hand. 

Sherlock, puzzled by the unusual temerity, caresses John’s face gently.

“What is it?”

John breathes deeply and soldiers on.

“Have you ever considered a threesome?”

Sherlock’s breathing gets shallow and his eyes darken. John smirks at the physiological answer but waits for his man to verbalize. He runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, enjoying the low purr it elicits. 

“ _John._ ”

“I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Mmm. Definitely. Yes. Plus, I want to meet this mystery man. I doubt he’s anything like me really.”

John just smiles already anticipating the delicious shock of a Sherlock proven wrong as he pulls out his phone to send his text: 

[TEXT] What are you doing tonight?

[TEXT] He went for it then

[TEXT] Yeah actually. Much faster than I thought.

[TEXT] I can be free around 7

           Same address?

[TEXT] Cheeky bastard. Yes, same address.

[TEXT] c u soon

[TEXT] Fucking American. 

By the time seven o’clock rolls around. John has changed the bedsheets, dusted the bedroom furniture, run a vacuum over the rug, and stacked the clutter into neater piles. Sherlock watched the flurry of activity from his prone position on the sofa with a sardonic smile.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Sherlock turns on his side to better watch the hypnotic flex of John’s powerful thighs and arse.

“Like what?”

“I just want everyone to be comfortable.”

As John crosses in front of him to clean the coffee table, Sherlock grabs him and pulls him down to lay on top of him.

“He has been here before, John. Everything will be fine. Besides, he won’t even look at the rest of the flat once you take your clothes off.” 

John blushes and noses against Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Me? Good god, he’ll need to be resuscitated just from the sight of your chiseled chest.”

“Well, good thing he’s got a doctor then.”

The doorbell rings. John slaps Sherlock’s chest playfully, then gets up to answer the door.

“Could you uncork the wine while I get this?”

Not leaving time for Sherlock to reply, John disappears down the stairs. The light rumble of laughter carries up the stairs as Sherlock pours three equal glasses of smooth, deep red. He’s just swirling the wine in his glass and tasting as the mysterious sorcerer enters the flat. Sherlock inhales quickly, accidentally snorting red wine. The drink burns in his nose and the back of his throat as he quickly recovers from the odd experience of looking into an alternate reality mirror, or at least that’s what it feels like.

The man really does look like him, with a few notable differences. He may go in for a good disguise every now and then, but he would never be caught dead in the ridiculous robes the man is wearing. The goatee is also distracting. He hadn’t been lying when he told John he likes his doctors clean-shaven.

The hand tremors are a painful reminder of darker earlier times and a different doctor who was running from his past. The man in front of him is running too. That is clear from the set of his jaw, but it’s impossible to determine what he’s running from without more information. He is a detective after all, not a psychic, no matter how much John argues otherwise.

The man, _Stephen_ – Sherlock reminds himself, smiles knowingly and gestures at himself in a _go ahead and do your worst_ sort of way. He is roguishly handsome and charming in a way that Sherlock is not. There’s a truth beneath it that Sherlock can never quite muster. He tries anyway. He straightens his shoulders and offers his hand. 

“You must be Stephen. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“All good I hope.”

Stephen shakes his hand but his eyes are glued to John, who seems unsure of his role now that he’s brought these two men together.

“Good? Absolutely not.”

That gets John’s attention. Good. John should be paying attention to him. _What is wrong with him?_ He’s unbearably petty already and all Stephen has done is walk into their flat. He needs to get himself under control. 

“That would be boring.” 

He plays it off with a playful wink and smirk, which Stephen buys though John looks unconvinced. He offers each of them a wineglass then settles in his armchair. Things may be less awkward with them all comfortably seated. He’ll be more comfortable anyway. John sits in his appointed chair while Stephen takes the sofa. He sits sideways and stretches his long legs out along the seat.

“God, this is a comfortable couch!”

John sets his half-empty glass down on the side table and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He has a predatory gleam in his eyes as he sizes Stephen up.

“You have no idea.”

Stephen downs the rest of the wine in one go. _A pity. That was decent wine. Gift from Mycroft. Probably at least £100_ _a bottle._

“Why don’t you get over here and show me.”

Stephen widens his legs to give John room. Before Sherlock knows what is happening, John is straddling Stephen, knees on either side of his waist, and kissing him hard. Stephen tries to control the kiss but John has him pinned down. He bites Stephen’s lip. Stephen groans into it and thrusts up against John. His hands are pulling John’s shirt from his trousers and caressing the soft, tan skin of his back. The goatee scrapes against John’s cheeks, a confusing signal of pleasure-pain that lights a prickling sensation along his spine.

Sherlock, surprised and a little jealous, takes another slow sip of wine. If John wants to have sex with Stephen then Sherlock is going to sit here and watch. Let them be uncomfortable. They are in his home after all. Writhing and humping and kissing on his sofa. John is sucking Stephen’s tongue into his mouth and moaning wantonly in Sherlock’s sitting room. He could probably hear the friction of their trouser zippers rubbing together from his kitchen.

He absently presses against his own cock and chokes on his own arousal. He hadn’t realized how turned on he was getting from watching the pair on the sofa. He unzips his trousers and takes himself in hand, stroking slowly with the rhythm of John’s undulating body. Stephen’s head is thrown back against the arm of the sofa while John sucks firmly at his earlobe.

Sherlock feels the burn of that phantom pleasure and squeezes harder as his hips buck into his fist. His free hand is clenched in his own hair, tugging randomly, just like John does. John, catching sight of Sherlock and realizing what he’s doing, smirks and buries his hands in Stephen’s hair, tugging. Stephen and Sherlock moan in unison, long and deep.

John is transported back to that first time. The twin aches of arousal and loss ricochet through him again and for a moment, Sherlock is dead and John is conflating the two in his desperation and lust. He goes still on top of Stephen, who looks lost. Sherlock understands immediately. 

Instead of drawing attention to John’s momentary lapse, he stands.

“I think a change of local is in order. We’d all be more comfortable in the bedroom. Don’t you think Stephen?” 

“Yeah. Sure. Bedroom sounds great. After you, John.”

John slides off the sofa and walks directly to the bedroom, silently thanking Sherlock for the moment alone to get himself together. Sherlock smiles warmly at Stephen and claps him on the back as they follow.

Once they’re in the bedroom, John snaps back fast. He strips them both quickly and yanks his own clothing off before sliding between the two men. He knows exactly what he wants. He has been fantasizing about this for a while now, if he’s being honest. He runs his palm appreciatively over Sherlock’s thigh, inching toward his unflagging erection. As he runs his fingers over Sherlock’s balls, he looks him in the eye.

“I want you to fuck me.”

With his other hand, he traces Stephen’s mouth and slides his middle finger inside.

“And I want to suck you off while he fucks me.”

Both men groan as John’s cock throbs at the thought. Sherlock dives into their bedside table for the lube. He kisses John’s hip as he coats his finger and circles John’s entrance with a light teasing touch that John can’t help but thrust back toward. With his other hand, Sherlock grasps Stephen’s cock and strokes with purpose. The other man’s eyes roll at the practiced twist of Sherlock’s hand at the tip of his cock, dragging his palm over the sensitive head.

“You’re so fucking good at that.”

Stephen rasps. John cries out as Sherlock’s finger dances over his prostate.

“Yeah. God. So bloody good. He’s so bloody good. Aren’t you, love?”

Sherlock whines and dives down to suck John’s cock into his eager mouth. He pants around John’s throbbing erection and slides a second finger in alongside the first. He stretches John carefully and adds a delicious twist of his fingers on each out stroke. John is thrusting steadily back on each stroke and pumping up into his mouth. Stephen’s moans are growing high and needy as he lowers his own hand beneath Sherlock’s to fondle his balls. With a final flick of his wrist, Sherlock withdraws and watches John’s hole spasm greedily at the sudden emptiness. The man himself growls and bends at the waist, to pull Sherlock down on top of him. 

Stephen whimpers at the loss of contact as well and moves around the bed to stand at John’s head. John strokes Stephen’s cock twice before Sherlock thrusts into his ready hole. John’s chest hitches for a moment before his entire body relaxes into the soothing pleasure of Sherlock fucking him.

“That’s it. Yes, Sherlock. I want it. Come on.”

He lets his head hang off the bed to suck Stephen upside-down into his mouth. Sweat drips off Sherlock’s brow and runs rivulets down John’s chest. The detective is mesmerized by the sight. 

“You have no idea how hot you look right now, John.”

“So damn hot. Jesus! This mouth is unbelievable. Take it. Yes!”

Stephen’s voice, American accent and all, rings loud in the room as the open door of the wardrobe catches John’s eye. He goes dizzy with arousal at the sight of his naked body stretched between the two most beautiful men he has ever met reflected in the full-length mirror.

He watches Sherlock’s arse flex with every thrust, his powerful shoulders rippling as he holds himself above John. He watches the emotions play over Stephen’s face as he pulls him deep into his throat. John reaches for his cock. It needs to be touched. Right the fuck now. He pumps into his fist and loosens his mouth to allow Stephen to fuck into it. All three bodies move at the same tempo. Sherlock fucks into John who is forced onto Stephen’s cock and back off as Sherlock slides out. John can taste salty pre-ejaculate on his tongue and doesn’t know how much longer he himself will last. His fist flies along his own cock, liberally lubricated by his own arousal. Sherlock’s thrusts are faltering as he breathes erratically. 

Suddenly, Stephen stops thrusting and his eyes lock on something just over John’s right shoulder. John, unable to move and look, feels exposed. He looks to Sherlock, hoping to gauge the situation and catches the mischievous grin on his face.

“What the fuck is this? I thought ya said eight o’clock, Sherlock. I come here all gentlemanly and reserved to see this?”

The short sturdy body of a sour Scotsman lounges in the doorway. Sherlock begins fucking John again, long smooth strokes that have him begging.

“S-Sherlock. Please. I need more. Please. More.”

Sherlock leans forward to kiss John. His lips curl into a smile as he baits the fourth man.

“You better hurry up and get in here, MacKelpie, or you’ll miss all the fun." 

Iain doesn’t need telling twice. He kicks off his shoes while pulling his shirt over his head and looks Stephen up and down as he undoes his fly.

“And who might you be, ya pretty thing.”

Iain kisses Stephen’s shoulder blade and ruts against his arse.

“Stephen.”

It comes out a little rough. He clears his throat and tries again.

“Stephen Strange.”

“Strange? Aw, don’t be like that darling. We’ve all got a kink or two. No shame in that.”

He twists one of Stephen’s nipples hard while he sucks at a freckle on his neck. Stephen’s knees go weak. 

“That’s the trick. You need more forceful handling. Don’t you, Stephen?” 

Iain waits for Stephen to nod.

“Well, I can certainly help with that.”

He slaps Stephen’s ass and the sound reverberates around the room. Then he squeezes a taut handful, relishing the warmth blooming across the abused skin. 

“If memory serves, Sherlock liked a bit ‘o rough too. Didn’t ya?” 

Sherlock blushes, but John growls and rocks his hips to flip them over. He looms possessively over the detective and thrusts himself down hard. 

“Fuck you, Iain. He’s my glorious genius now.”

John’s palms dig into Sherlock’s shoulders as he braces himself. Sherlock looks up at him with wide admiring eyes. John loves that look. For this moment, he is Sherlock’s sole focus. It’s as if he holds all the world in his hands.

Iain chuckles, pleased that his barb got under John’s skin. The man is so easy to rile. Turning his attention back to Stephen, he pulls the sorcerer’s hair until he is leaned back and looking into his eyes.

“How about you, gorgeous? You property of the possessive Captain Watson too?”

Stephen yanks his head out of Iain’s grasp and turns to face the man. 

“I’m no one’s property asshole.”

He brings the full force of a blistering kiss to bear on the unsuspecting Scotsman, who pushes back equally hard. The meeting of lips could barely be called a kiss. It’s more a battle for dominance, that they’re both losing. Stephen wraps his hand around both their erections, adding pressure. 

“Bloody brilliant.”

Iain pants as he plunders Stephen’s mouth with his tongue. He cups Stephen’s arse cheeks in both hands and pulls the man toward him while Stephen speeds up his strokes.

Sherlock is barely withstanding John’s punishing thrusts. He won’t hold out much longer. A mottled flush peppers his chest, neck, and face a bright red. He is chanting low, almost under his breath.

“So good. So good. So good.” 

John stares fondly at the man and gasps as every thrust brushes Sherlock’s cock against his prostate, lighting him up from the inside out. His fist flies over his swollen cock, and he knows he’s seconds away from coming. He squeezes Sherlock’s biceps and fucks himself hard, but he leans down, noses along Sherlock’s ear, and whispers: “I love you.” 

Sherlock groans and freezes as his abdomen spasms. John can feel the familiar warm wet spurt of his come filling him. He revels in it. Two more pumps and he is spilling over his own hand, painting Sherlock’s stomach. He drops unceremoniously onto the detective, smearing the mess between their bodies, but he doesn’t care. He breathes deeply and traces circles on Sherlock’s pectoral.

Behind him, John can hear the high-pitched whines of Iain and Stephen, who hadn’t even made it to the bed. Stephen has Iain pinned against the wall, but Iain is pulling Stephen against him with every thrust. Stephen will have fingernail marks on his ass tomorrow. Iain chuckles darkly at the thought. Stephen claims his mouth with another searing kiss as he rocks into him and comes, gasping and cursing.

“Shit. Fuck, yeah. Oh yeah. I’m coming. I’m coming.”

Iain follows right after.

“Yes. Fucking come for me. That’s it. Yeah, such a pretty cock.”

Iain and Stephen stagger over and collapse on the bed as well. John chuckles at the memory of changing the sheets mere hours ago. So much for that. Sherlock elbows him. 

“I told you it wasn’t necessary.”

John rolls his eyes fondly.

“Shut up.”

Iain makes a gagging noise and looks to Stephen for support. He’s not disappointed. Stephen is already rolling his eyes.

“Too bad I don’t live around here. I’d love to see how many ways I can make you beg, gorgeous.”

Stephen smiles wickedly.

“Then it’s a good thing I can travel through time and space. You wouldn’t want to miss out on the magic. I’ll make you fucking fly with my Cloak of Levitation.”

Iain opens his mouth, but Stephen beats him to it. 

“Not a euphemism.”

Iain grins.

“Can’t wait.”


End file.
